


Auld Lang Syne

by rabidchild67



Series: Origins [1]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Amnesia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-14 01:09:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidchild67/pseuds/rabidchild67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally published as commentfic for a prompt at collarkink asking for an amnesiac Neal: “I'd love to see how the others react to this completely different Neal who wakes up - he's cute and sweet and charming as ever but he's also this complete innocent and a very shy guy... maybe like an awkward teenager.”</p><p>This story spawned a few more stories in an AU treatment of Neal's teenage years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Auld Lang Syne

“Neal!” Peter shouts as his partner falls, and runs to the roof’s edge. He doesn’t think – can’t! – about the 23 story drop off the side of the building, but what else is he supposed to do when his partner, his friend (his life!) has been dragged over the parapet by their fleeing suspect? He feels sick, his vision goes white around the edges, but he must go, he must see, he must…

 

Peter skids to a stop at the edge of the roof, leans over desperately and swallows the lump in his throat. He thanks the patron saint of thieves and conmen that window washing had been scheduled for this building on this day, for Neal has landed on the scaffold suspended from the side of the building about three stories down. Their suspect, Nichols, is dangling from the ropes off the side of the rig and is yelling for help. Peter almost laughs until he notices that Neal isn’t moving.

 

He shouts for Jones to hurry over, and searches for the controls in the rigging on the side of the building. He picks up the junction box and flips the switch. The scaffold shudders and slowly rises, creaking from the odd weight distribution of their dangling suspect. When the scaffold reaches the top, Clinton scrambles down and pulls Nichols to safety, hauls him over to the waiting support team to be taken away and processed. Peter climbs down to check on Neal.

 

He quickly ascertains that Neal seems whole – there is no blood and he is breathing. He lightly slaps his partner’s face – isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? “Neal. Come on, baby, talk to me!” But there is no response. “Christ, Neal, come on!” Nothing.

 

An hour later, Peter is hovering over the hospital’s emergency room staff as they evaluate Neal's condition; he needs to be sure his lover is afforded the very best of attention and care. He is eventually asked to leave by a formidable charge nurse with a nametag that reads Magdalena. He sheepishly retires to the waiting area and awaits news.

 

Not long after, a doctor enters the room and approaches Peter. She clears her throat and takes a deep breath. It’s never easy delivering this news to the loved ones. “Agent Burke, I’m afraid Mr. Caffrey has suffered head trauma. He hasn’t yet regained consciousness, but his vitals remain strong. He’ll survive, but we’re not quite sure how extensive the damage will be until we can run a few more tests.”

 

“What are you saying?”

 

“I’m saying it’s wait-and-see, but the longer he remains unconscious, the worse his prognosis, I’m afraid.”

 

Peter takes an involuntary step backwards as if struck. No, no, no, his mind shouts at him, but externally he remains calm. “Can I see him?”

 

The doctor nods. “Sure, but just for a few minutes; we need to get him to radiology.”

 

Peter thanks the doctor and watches her walk away. He picks up his cell phone, pushes a few buttons and holds it up to his ear. “El?” he says, covering his eyes with his free hand and taking a shaking breath.

\----------

Peter and Elizabeth spend a long night at Neal's bedside, barely speaking to each other, the time punctuated by frequent trips to the cafeteria for coffee. Moz arrives around midnight, blanches at the sight of all the tubes and machinery, and removes himself to the waiting room at the end of the hall.

 

Elizabeth finally falls into a restless sleep lying across two chairs the nurses have brought in, her head cradled in her husband’s lap. Peter sits with his hand on Neal's hip, wanting to maintain contact even if it isn’t actually felt by the patient. Neal lies still and unmoving, his face smooth and unlined, his hair and mouth providing a dark contrast to his impossibly pale skin. He does not exude his normal, healthy glow, and Peter is struck by how young and small he appears lying there.

 

The dark sky is just lightening to a dove gray when Peter hears a low moan coming from deep in Neal's chest. He sits bolt upright, placing a hand on El’s shoulder to steady her in case he’s jarred her too much. “Neal?” he says, staring intently into his pale face. Neal's brow furrows, as if he is in pain, and he moans again. Elizabeth sits up and immediately goes to retrieve a nurse.

 

A minute later, Neal opens his eyes, awake but not aware, blue eyes staring at the ceiling, unblinking. Peter stands, takes his hand in his own and kisses it. Neal blinks at last, turns his head and looks at Peter.

 

By now, El has returned with the nurse in tow. She is all business as she evaluates Neal's condition. “Mr. Caffrey? Do you know where you are? Can you tell me what day it is?”

 

Neal looks at her, a blank expression on his face. The nurse shines a penlight into his left eye, pulls it away, repeats for the right. “Mr. Caffrey? Neal? How do you feel?”

 

Finally he seems to focus on her, “My head hurts,” he says, reaching up and putting his hand to the back of his head.

 

“You’ve had a nasty fall and hit your head. You’ve got a concussion, so your head will hurt for a while. Do you know what day it is?”

 

“Wednesday?” The nurse glances at Peter – it was Thursday morning, so close enough. “Good, and who’s the president of the United States?”

 

Neal looks at her like she is crazy. “Bill Clinton,” he answers, shaking his head. He glances over at Peter and Elizabeth, and looks at them curiously, but returns his attention back to the nurse when she begins speaking again. “And what year is it?”

 

“1997. What’s this all about? Where the heck am I?” He sits up, beginning to panic, and his eyes dart around the room.

 

Just then, Mozzie enters the room, having been alerted by another nurse that Neal is awake. Neal looks at him and his face relaxes as he recognizes him. “Mr. Moskowitz! Boy am I glad to see you. What is going on?”

 

Mozzie stops short, as all eyes in the room are suddenly on him. He immediately sums up the situation and crosses to Neal, pats him on the shoulder awkwardly. “It’s OK, kid, don’t worry. Everything’ll be OK.” Mozzie looks over at Peter and Elizabeth, trying and failing to hide the panic in his eyes.

 

Neal visibly relaxes at the touch, though, gives a wan smile, and lets out a long breath. “OK. Whew. I was beginning to worry. But Mr. Moz, can you tell me what happened? And who are all these people?”

 

\------

“Retrograde amnesia?” Elizabeth says, more shrilly than she’d meant to, after the neurologist pronounced his diagnosis. “What is this, a soap opera?”

 

“Now honey,” Peter begins, but she cuts him off. “I’m sorry, doctor, but this is a lot to take in. He thinks he’s 17 years old! What do we do?”

 

“I’m afraid we just have to wait and see. In many of these cases, the effect is temporary, with the patient regaining most or all of his memory. In matters of the human brain, we just can’t know.”

 

“So there’s nothing to be done?”

 

“Rest, exposure to the things in his life that are familiar – he might see something that triggers his memories. That’s what I would recommend.”

 

“Thank you, doctor.

 

Elizabeth and Peter return to Neal's room to find him sitting up in bed and talking animatedly with Mozzie, who has a look on his face like he’d like to flee. Moz excuses himself and leads the Burkes back out of the room. “What is it?” asks Peter.

 

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take. He’s talking prom.”

 

“Aye, yi, yi,” Elizabeth sighs, and runs a hand across her eyes.

 

“Listen,” Peter says, hands out in a placating gesture, “there’s not much we can do. You heard the doctor, either he gets past this or he doesn’t. The best thing right now is to take him home to Brooklyn and hope something there jars his memory. We can’t take him to June’s – I don’t think a teenage boy ought to be left alone in the city.”

 

Elizabeth regards him with raised eyebrows, but is forced to agree. “Of course you’re right. What do we tell him, though? Does he know what’s happened?”

 

“I think he’s put two and two together – he was always a smart kid,” Moz replies. “But I’m not sure if he’ll quite…get…your special relationship.” It was Mozzie’s turn to raise his eyebrows meaningfully, glancing from Peter to Elizabeth and back again and rocking back and forth on his heels in that Mozzie way.

 

“What? Oh. Oh!” Peter says. “You’re right. Let’s just tell him we work together and that he can stay at our place until he feels better. We’ll make up the guest room for him. It’ll work – half his clothes are in there already.”

 

“OK, then, I’ll run home and stock the fridge with soda and Hot Pockets or whatever it is that teenage boys eat and you two try not to scare him too much, all right?” Elizabeth says. Kissing Peter, she heads for the elevators.

 

“Well, let’s get in there and break the news,” Peter says. They both move to return to the room, but Peter stops Moz with a hand on his arm. “So, exactly how long have you known Neal, anyway, Mr. Moskowitz?”

 

Moz cringes. “It’s a long and boring story. One which you’ll never hear from me, suit.” Peter smiles and follows Moz back into the hospital room.

 

\-----------------

Late the next morning, Peter and Elizabeth arrive home with Neal in tow. He stands hesitantly just inside their front door and takes in the foyer and living room with appreciation. “You have a real nice home, Mrs. Burke,” he says sincerely. Peter and Elizabeth share a look, and Peter heads upstairs to drop off the few belongings they had brought to the hospital.

 

Elizabeth smiles, takes his arm and leads him inside. “Thank you Neal but, you know you can call me Elizabeth.”

 

He looks at her dubiously, because his Gran taught him to respect his elders and always call them Mr. and Mrs., but flashes a wide grin just the same. El thinks she sees a hint of her old Neal in there, and smiles back, but the smile doesn’t quite erase the hint of sadness in her eyes. Oh, the poor baby, she thinks, how confused he must be. She shakes herself out of it soon enough, however, and shows the young(er) man around the house, and goes to the kitchen to make them all lunch.

 

When she opens the kitchen door, Satchmo comes barreling out, all wriggling body and wagging tail. He greets Peter, who has just returned from upstairs, and charges Neal when he catches sight of him. The dog fairly body slams Neal, plopping himself at his feet and presenting his belly to be rubbed, moaning in anticipation. Neal crouches down and gives him a belly rub. “Hey, dog!” he greets him happily, turning his attention to the dog’s head and worrying his face between his hands playfully. Satch surges to his feet and proceeds to lick Neal's face with gusto, practically knocking him to the floor. “Whoa, Satch! Take it easy!” Neal laughs.

 

“What did you say?” Peter says, looking at Neal intently.

 

“What did I say?” Neal asks warily, standing up, blue eyes worried, doggy joyfest forgotten.

 

“You knew the dog’s name. He’s Satchmo.”

 

“I did? I did. Oh. Is that bad?”

 

Peter positively beams. “No, I’d say it’s pretty damn good. El!” Peter holds his arm out for her and she hugs her husband close.

 

“I heard it. Oh, Neal, sweetie, you remembered something!” she says, blinking back sudden tears.

 

Neal is slightly discomfited by their reaction, but tries to hide it with a smile. The Burkes have been kind to him and tell him they are his friends, and he believes and wants to trust them, but at the same time they are complete strangers to him. The doctor told him he has amnesia, that he is not the 17 year old boy from Hoboken he thinks he is, and every time he looks in the mirror, he sees the truth in that. But it doesn’t make him feel any better to know he is really a grown man, despite the fact that being just that is about the only thing he has longed for (to be grown – to get away from his father – it was his deepest desire). It just makes him feel confused and lonely and a little scared. Because, what happens to him if he doesn’t get his memories back?

 

He is shaken from his thoughts when Elizabeth returns to the kitchen to make them all lunch. Peter offers him a soda, and he accepts. They sit at opposite ends of the couch together and watch a baseball game on TV. Neal sits stiffly, his posture too straight, quelling the urge to tap his foot nervously. He wishes he could relax, but knows he will not. Normally shy and reserved – it was a defense mechanism – he has always taken a long time to warm up to strangers. Speaking his mind or offering his opinion has usually landed him into trouble, gotten him called stupid, a moron and worse, or on occasion resulted in a severe beating. He had long ago learned the benefits of keeping his mouth shut and melting into the scenery.

 

When lunch is over – wild mushroom omelet, one of Neal's favorites – Elizabeth produces a strange, rectangular device from her bag (the label says it is an iPad and Neal wonders what that’s supposed to mean), and asks Neal to sit down beside her at the dining room table. She touches a button and it comes to life, and soon she is moving her fingers across its screen and eventually points at it, handing it to Neal to have a look. He’s a bit distracted by the device itself for a second (it’s so small, thin – where’s the keyboard?), but notices there are pictures of his hosts on it. Elizabeth shows him how to scroll through the pictures, and smiles at him expectantly as he digests each one.

 

There are pictures of the Burkes together and separate, and eventually with Neal in them. There he is posing with his arm around Elizabeth at Rockefeller Center; here they both are posing with an elegant older woman she calls June. Now he is in a picture with Peter, both men smiling at the camera. Neal notices he is wearing a hat and peers closer at that one. “I look like a cartoon character,” he points out, shaking his head. In the last one, he is seated at this very table, a birthday cake in front of him, Elizabeth and Peter leaning over his chair to get into the frame.

 

He looks up at Elizabeth and she sees absolutely no recognition of these events in his eyes, tries to hide her disappointment. “Nothing, huh?” she says a little sadly. He doesn’t want her to be sad. “That’s OK honey.” She stands up to put the iPad away, rests her hand on the back of his neck and squeezes gently for a second. He is alarmed at the intimacy of the gesture and yet finds it strangely familiar. “It’ll come to you.”

 

\----------

The next day being a Saturday, El asks Neal to come along on her morning errands. They visit a local farmer’s market, her fish monger and the dry cleaner, El quizzing him on his likes and dislikes along the way. He seems to have formed an attachment to her for which she is grateful, as it seems like he is beginning to come out of his shell. While she finds this version of “Neal 1.0” to be sweet and respectful, she longs for the charm, gregariousness and flirtatiousness of her Neal.

 

Their final stop is the wine shop to pick up something for the weekend. There is a table set up at the front of the shop offering wine tastings, and El stops to taste a few. As she is sampling an Argentinean Malbec, the merchant offers a small cup of the same to Neal, who shakes his head. “Oh no, I don’t think so.”

 

“You sure?” Elizabeth says, eyes twinkling. “You are over 21.”

 

Neal blushes. “No ma’am – I mean, Elizabeth. I just don’t think it’d be right.” He looks down at his shoes; he doesn’t like to contradict her, but he is just a boy and besides, he knows he doesn’t really like the taste.

 

She squeezes his arm reassuringly. “No worries, sweetie.” She proceeds to buy six bottles of various vintages, including the Malbec.

 

Later that afternoon, Elizabeth enlists Neal's help in preparing dinner. She puts him to work shucking oysters and he proves to be adept at the task – as he had always been in the past. She pulls together a rustic oyster stew, salad, and homemade cornmeal biscuits. She makes it extra-spicy as she knows Neal likes it, hoping through these small gestures she might jar a memory in him that might prove to be the key to his recovery. Mozzie joins them at El’s invitation, and their “family unit” spends a leisurely dinner, chatting about nothing in particular.

 

“So, tell me Neal, how you know Mr. Moskowitz?” Peter asks later, apropos of nothing, as they are setting up a game of Scrabble. Mozzie and Elizabeth both give him the look that says, “Don’t even go there.”

 

“Oh, he’s my art teacher,” Neal responds automatically, with a shy smile. He fiddles with the letter tiles. “He’s teaching me to paint.”

 

“Really?” Peter says, glancing over at Moz. “What’s he been teaching you?”

 

“Lately, 17th century European chinoiserie technique. He says it’s the soul of the rococo style. I just like the pigments they used, and the use of light... Or, I guess, he did, since it was a few years ago, right?” Neal's brow furrows as he tries to reconcile his past and present.

 

Peter is quick to reply – he doesn’t want Neal to upset himself. “You don’t say? That must’ve been pretty esoteric stuff for a high school curriculum.”

 

“Neal's a very talented student,” Moz interjects. “He got extra credit.”

 

“I’ll bet.”

 

“My dad says Mr. Moz is the best, and that I can learn a lot from him.”

 

“Coffee?” Elizabeth interrupts, shooting Peter another look.

 

“Let me help you with that,” Moz offers and flees with her to the kitchen.

 

As they are preparing the coffee, El gives Mozzie a questioning look. “So you and Neal have known each other for a long time?”

 

Mozzie considers prevaricating but lets it go – he knows he can trust Mrs. Suit. “I had a day job as a high school art teacher. Excellent benefits. Anyway, Neal had many talents, which his father exploited. I helped him develop them. He was a lonely, misunderstood kid and it boosted my ego to do it. I’m not proud of it, but there it is. And Neal's dad was a right bastard and would’ve found someone less – shall we say indulgent – if I hadn’t been amenable.”

 

Elizabeth nods. “You made him what he is today.”

 

“No. He did that all on his own. I just focused his talents in certain directions.”

 

“Ah. Nuff said. Let’s get this show on the road.”

 

They brought out the coffee (hot chocolate for Neal, who deemed even coffee off limits) and spend the remainder of the evening in cheerful conversation.

 

\-------------------

Later that night, El and Peter sleep in each other’s arms when the sounds of moaning and crying erupt from the guest room. El is on her feet in a second and rushes to the door, opening it and taking in the scene.

 

Neal lies on his back, covers thrown off of him, his head shifting from side to side. “No,” he mutters plaintively, “please. No! Kate! KATE!” With that last exclamation, he sits bolt upright in the bed, breathing so heavily El fears he might hyperventilate. His eyes are wide with terror, sweat has plastered his hair to his forehead, and he glances around the room wildly, panicking.

 

Elizabeth is at his side in a moment, holds him in her arms, his head on her chest, rubbing his back and making soothing, shushing noises until his breathing begins to calm down. She has been in this position before, right after Kate's death, and knows well the demons that come to the surface while Neal sleeps. “It’s OK, baby, I’m here. I’m here.”

 

Neal's eyes are screwed shut, tears stream down his cheeks. “God, Kate,” he moans quietly. “Why? Why?”

 

“Shh…shh…I know, Neal, baby, I know. I’ve got you.”

 

Peter arrives at this moment, eyes panicked, pulling on a robe. “What is it?”

 

“The plane,” Elizabeth explains.

 

Peter's expression relaxes, but he is no less concerned for Neal. “Oh. What did you remember, Neal?”

 

Neal opens his eyes, sits up and looks at Peter. “There was an explosion and she’s gone. Kate's gone, isn’t she?”

 

“She is,” Peter responds gently.

 

Neal stares at his lap, eyes darting back and forth, mind working furiously to remember. “She’s important, isn’t she?” he says finally

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then why don’t I remember?” he says, looking up at Peter with fresh tears brimming in his eyes. His voice is quiet, despairing.

 

Elizabeth pulls his head back to her shoulder and strokes his hair back from his forehead with slow, regular movements; she knows from experience that this will calm him. “You will, honey, you will. I promise.” She is unable to mask the tears in her voice; she can think of nothing worse than reliving the nightmare of Kate's death with Neal. Peter joins them on the bed and places a hand on Neal's knee; El grabs his other hand and they sit there for several minutes until Neal's eyes begin to droop and he is falling asleep in El’s arms. She gently lays him down and covers him, kissing him on the forehead again. She and Peter cross to the door and glance back before leaving. Neal settles into his pillows with a sigh.

 

“We’ve got to help him Peter. It is killing me to see him like this.”

 

“I know, hon, but we have to keep trying for Neal's sake. He’s remembering. We just have to let it take its course.”

 

“You’re right. What can we do next?”

 

“Let’s take him to June’s tomorrow. See how he does when he sees his own belongings.”

 

“Excellent idea. We’ll take him to June’s."

\-----------

\-----------  
Sunday dawns bright and sunny, with just a hint of autumn crispness in the air. The Burkes deposit Neal in the Taurus and drive him to Manhattan, where June has set Neal's favorite breakfast of croissants, fresh squeezed orange juice and her special Italian roast coffee on the terrace.

 

“Thank you for breakfast, Mrs., uh…June,” Neal says around a mouthful of croissant and blackberry jam.

 

“You’re very welcome, my dear,” June beams at him. “You must have a look around and reacquaint yourself with the place. You are always very welcome here.” She stands and places a motherly hand on Neal's cheek. “I must be going – brunch with the mayor’s wife. I do hope to see you all again soon.”

 

After June has left, El clears her throat and says, “So Neal, we didn’t just bring you here to meet June.” “This,” she gestures around them, “is your apartment. You live here.”

 

Neal looks at her as if she’s spouted a second head. “No way!” he exclaims, glancing up at Peter, who has remained standing since June left. “Way,” Peter responds, smiling.

 

“Why don’t you take a look around?” El suggests.

 

In spite of himself, Neal tears through the terrace doors to investigate, spurred on by the promise of learning more about this man he has become and yet has no connection to. He starts in the living room, taking in the art pieces that dot the walls, the books on the shelves. He stops in front of the sketch on the easel near the windows and peers at it closely. “DaVinci print?” he surmises aloud.

 

“That’s a Neal Caffrey reproduction,” Peter says. He has been trailing Neal around the apartment, watching him for any sign of recognition. “An exact copy, down to the type of vellum and ink used.”

 

“That’s weird, why would I make this?”

 

“Let’s just say that your artistic abilities haven’t been abandoned in your later years.”

 

Neal looks around some more, opening the drawers in the coffee table, the cabinets in the kitchen. He crosses over to the bedroom, bounces up and down on the edge of the bed. He swings his legs around, opens the top drawer of the bedside table. “What the heck?” he says, peering closer. Peter cranes his neck, spots a bottle of lube, and a small riding crop among other things. “Umm…” he begins, throws a panicked look at El.

 

“Have you checked out your clothes?” she says brightly, throwing open the door on the wardrobe.

 

Distracted, Neal turns around to look over at Elizabeth and Peter shuts the drawer with a bang. Neal bounds over to her side and begins to inspect the rows of neatly pressed shirts and suits. He pulls out the dark gray jacket with the black piping and gives it an appraising look. “This is mine?”

 

“It is. That’s one of my favorites,” El tells him.

 

“It’s awfully fancy.” He says, wrinkling his nose and putting it back. Next, he opens the top drawer and takes a look. “How many pocket squares does one person need?” he says to himself, but keeps looking. He spots his fedora propped up on the coat rack beside the bed and regards it skeptically.

 

“Try it on,” El encourages, and he does so. He inspects himself closely in the mirror. “Like this,” El says, and tilts it forward and to the right. He frowns at his reflection, wondering if he should take her seriously. “I’m a smooth criminal,” he says, smiling at his joke.

 

“Um, yeah, so Peter thought he’d take you to the FBI offices tomorrow,” Elizabeth says, changing the subject yet again. She didn’t think he’d be ready to face up to the facts of his chosen vocation just yet.

 

“Really?” Neal says, brightening. He removes the hat and returns it to its resting place.

 

“Sure. You and I work together, as you know. Maybe you’ll remember something there.”

 

A hopeful look crosses Neal's features. “You think so?”

 

“I hope so,” Peter says sincerely. “So let’s pack up some more of your clothes and take them home, OK? There’s a suitcase in there.” Peter indicates the small closet on the wall opposite the bed, and Neal gets to it.

 

Peter crosses over to El and takes her in his arms, kisses her on top of her head. “Tell me this will get easier,” she says.

 

“It has to. By the way, I found your strap-on in that drawer over there.” El lets out a small eep noise and turns bright pink, burying her face in her husband’s chest.

 

\---------------

Peter arrives alone at the office in the morning and calls an impromptu staff meeting. He thought it would be better to warn the team about Neal's situation in advance, so El was bringing him over later in the day.

 

“How’s Neal?” Diana asks as they all take their seats at the conference room table.

 

“That’s the first item on our agenda this morning. As you all know, Neal suffered a nasty blow to the head last week, and while the doctors assure us he’s physically OK, we’re going to have to…make a few special concessions while he recovers.”

 

“It’s nothing serious, is it?”

 

Peter pauses to take a breath before continuing. How to deliver the news without it sounding ridiculous? “He’s got amnesia. He has forgotten everything that’s happened to him since 1997.”

 

“Wait, so Neal –“

 

“Thinks he’s still 17 years old, yes,” Peter finishes for her.

 

Jones laughs until he realizes Peter is serious, and then he thinks about the true impact of the situation. “Does he know who he is?” he asks.

 

“Con man extraordinaire and international man of mystery?” Peter asks, trying to make light of it and not succeeding. “No. He has no idea. He’s just a kid from Jersey with a knack for copying the paintings of Old Masters. I haven’t had the heart to tell him. I’ve been hoping he’ll snap out of it or something, but nothing has come back to him so far.”

 

There is silence as the team digests this information. “So,” Peter begins again, taking a huge breath, “tell me how we’re progressing in the Walther Electronics case.” After the status meeting, he asks Diana to stay behind. “Listen, what I’m about to say is probably offensive or something, but just know that it’s coming from the right place. I want you to keep an eye on Neal for me when I can’t be around.”

 

Diana raises an eyebrow. “I get it, since I’m a woman, you figure I can be all touchy-feely and sensitive and babysit the kid?”

 

“Um,” Peter begins, squirming, but she lets him off the hook with a smile. “Relax, boss. You know I’m very fond of Neal and I will do what I can to help him. It can’t be easy for him.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

At noon, Elizabeth shows up with a homemade picnic lunch for the team and Neal in tow. He is dressed in one of his suits, but something is slightly off about it, Peter notices. The tie isn’t quite straight and doesn’t coordinate with the shirt, his hair is hanging across his forehead, and he’s wearing sneakers. Peter and El share a knowing look at his appearance, and then she busies herself setting up lunch in the conference room while Peter introduces Neal around to the team.

 

When they get to Diana’s desk, she rises and extends a hand. Neal shakes it, but can’t quite meet her eyes. Peter notices the blush rising up his neck to his cheeks and rolls his eyes. Diana is charmed. “I know you probably don’t remember me, Neal, but we are good friends. Why don’t you sit down at the desk next to mine and you can help me with some clerical work?”

 

“OK,” he replies, still not looking at her. As he walks around the desk, Peter mouths a silent “thank you” to Diana and moves off to help Elizabeth.

 

Towards the end of lunch, Hughes steps into the room and gives Elizabeth a warm greeting. He asks Peter to see him in the hall. “How’s Caffrey?”

 

“Well, Reese, he still remembers absolutely nothing of the last 13 years. I’m not sure how that is going to affect our caseload, but the team is up to it. I was hoping to keep him around today to see if anything jogs his memory.”

 

“Do what you think is best, but we need to reinstall his tracking anklet. I don’t want to be accused of giving a convict special treatment, even if he does think he’s some pimply faced kid.”

 

Peter gives Hughes a look but nods in acceptance of his boss’s order. Hughes steps back into the conference room, snags a sandwich and returns to his office.

 

Peter calls Diana aside and says, “Hughes wants me to put the tracking anklet back on Neal.”

 

Diana nods once and puts a hand on his arm. “I’ll take care of it, boss.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Haven’t you noticed? Neal's totally crushing on me. He’ll do anything I ask.”

 

\--------------------

At the end of the day, Peter is ensconced in his office in a meeting with the liaison from DHS, and Diana is running out of busy work for Neal. “Hey, Neal, Peter's meeting looks like it’s going to take a lot longer. How ‘bout I drive you home?”

 

Neal's eyes widen and he looks down at his shoes. He is flustered at the prospect of being alone with her in a car. “Oh, I dunno…”

 

“It’ll be all right and Elizabeth will want you home early, I’m sure. Besides, I have to check in on a surveillance detail and it’s on the way. Would you like to check that out?”

 

“Would I?” Neal exclaims, all shyness forgotten. “Oh, yes, please!”

 

Diana sends Peter a quick text, picks up her bag and keys and ushers him toward the door. He races ahead to hold it open for her, and offers to carry her bag for her. His energy keeps her smiling all the way down to the parking garage.

 

Minutes later, Diana leads Neal to the door of the surveillance van and knocks twice before opening it. She motions him inside and quickly closes the door behind them. Neal presses himself up against the wall next to the door, not wanting to get in the way. He takes in all the equipment and monitors with a mixture of awe and curiosity.

 

Jones turns around at their arrival and smiles. “Hey, Neal. Come to check out the FBI in action?”

 

“Yes, sir. This is so cool!”

 

“Would you like to listen in?”

 

“Can I?”

 

“Sure. Sit down here next to me.” Jones hands him a set of earphones. “We have wiretapped the suspect’s girlfriend’s apartment because we’re hoping he shows up tonight with some stolen computer chips. They’re experimental and very advanced, so we really want to get them back to the company they belong to.”

 

“I think he just arrived,” Agent Patrick says. “Show time,” Jones says, winking at Neal as he dons his own headphones. Neal's eyes are like saucers as he listens, rapt.

 

A few minutes into it, there is the unmistakable sound of their subject macking heavily on the girlfriend. “Ooh, I think they’re kissing!” Neal exclaims and straightens up in his seat. Jones and Diana share a look and smile. “What did she say? She wants him to ride her? How would he --?”

 

“OK, so it doesn’t look like much is happening there tonight,” Diana interrupts, snatching Neal's headphone cord out of its jack. “You guys got it covered in here?” Snickering, Jones nods, and Diana leads Neal back out into the warm night.

 

As they drive, Neal continues to enthuse about his experience. “Thank you SO much for taking me, Diana. That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen. Do you do this all the time?”

 

“We do. It’s one of the ways we catch the bad guys.”

 

“What else do you do?”

 

“Well, usually it’s a lot of research on the computer, but sometimes we have to follow people around to track their movements, and sometimes we have to go undercover. That’s my favorite part.”

 

Neal looks at her in awe. “It sounds pretty dangerous.”

 

“It can be, but we wear special devices so that our team never loses track of us. It’s like a safety net.

 

“Did I ever go undercover?”

 

“A few times. You were – are – very good at it.”

 

“But I would have the special devices to keep me safe?”

 

“Yep. I’ve got one in my bag if you want to take a look.” Neal reaches into the back seat for her bag. Sitting on top was a tracking anklet. “How’s it work?”

 

“Well, with that one, you wear it around your ankle and it emits a radio signal that shows us where you are at all times. This way, you never get lost.”

 

Neal leans forward and fastens it around his right ankle. “Like this?”

 

“Yes, but Neal I don’t have the key for that. You’re stuck with it until tomorrow now.”

 

Neal looks down at it appraisingly, his reply surprises her, “But it means that Peter will always be able to find me. I think I like that.” He smiles at her, then turns his head to watch the scenery whizzing past the car. On arrival at the Burkes, Neal thanks Diana again for the wonderful time, and kisses her on the cheek before jumping out of the car and heading inside.

 

When she arrives at work the next morning, Diana finds that the ends of all the pens in her pen cup have been decorated with origami flowers in a variety of colors. She picks one up and smiles, then feels even more like a shit for deceiving Neal.

 

\-----------------

 

Later that morning, Neal reads through some cold case files Peter has given him and cannot for the life of him figure out why anyone would want to do this for a living. The details of the cases are so boring, he wonders how they all can stay awake long enough to apprehend the criminals. He much prefers painting to this, and hopes that he will have the time to do some drawing when he gets home later.

 

His attention begins to wander and he notices that the meeting Peter is having with his team has apparently broken up. He stands when Diana returns to her desk, but she doesn’t sit down or have time to chat with him. She opens her desk drawer and pulls out numerous files, turns to return to the conference room. “What’s going on?” Neal asks.

 

“Remember that surveillance from last night? We may have found a break in the case. Peter wants to review every file.”

 

“Is there something I can do to help?”

 

“Feel like going for coffee?”

 

“OK!” Neal is happy to be of use, but secretly would like to just get out into the sunshine. Diana gives him some money and an order and he heads for the elevator.

 

\---------

Neal crosses the street and heads towards the Starbucks three blocks over. Since it is mid-morning, the coffee shop is not that busy, so he quickly places his order and waits at the end of the counter for it to be filled. He turns when he hears someone call his name. “Hello, Neal.”

 

The man is a little shorter than Neal, with shaggy hair and a cocky manner. Neal takes an involuntary step back. “Hi,” he says, confused. He supposed this was bound to happen, that he’d meet someone he knew before his accident and he wouldn’t remember who they were.

 

“It’s been a while, Caffrey. Why don’t we go somewhere and get caught up?” The man lifts his shirt and Neal swallows as he notices the gun he has tucked into the waistband of his pants.

 

\----------

Peter's meeting has reconvened, with the agents referencing and cross-referencing files and evidence as they build their case. Working for Peter, they know they must build an iron clad case before they’d be allowed to apply for warrants. Peter's methods led to closed cases, and the highest conviction rate in the region. They respected his process if they didn’t always agree with his level of thoroughness.

 

Suddenly, a red box appears on Diana’s and Jones’ screens, beeping loudly. “Shit!” Jones mutters, clicking through on the alert. “Shit!” he repeats as he digests the information.

 

“What?” Peter asks.

 

“Matthew Keller’s escaped from prison. Here’s the notice from the Marshall’s office.”

 

“Shit,” Peter says, standing. “I suppose they want our help tracking him down?”

 

“Nothing yet, but Peter, you have to take a look at this. It says he escaped on Sunday.”

 

“What? And they decide to tell us now? Where’s Neal?”

 

“Shit!” exclaims Diana. “He went out to get us coffee.”

 

“What?! Find him.” Peter can’t disguise the panic in his voice.

 

“On it!” Diana replies, already on the run. A few minutes later and she is at the Starbucks, showing a picture of Neal from her cell phone to the barrista. “Have you seen this man?”

 

“Yeah, he left before picking up his order.”

 

“Was he with anyone?”

 

“Another guy, I think. They walked out like they knew each other.”

 

“Oh my God,” Diana gasps, voice quivering with fear for Neal. She dials Peter on her cell and he answers on the first ring. “Peter, it’s me. Neal's not here. He left with another man. I think Keller must’ve taken him!”

 

\------------

Neal sees stars as the man who’s kidnapped him hits him across the face with his gun in hand. Detachedly, Neal supposes this is what they mean when referring to “pistol whipping.” The gun’s barrel opens up a gash across Neal's cheekbone, makes his eyes water. “Ow!” he can’t help saying, reaches a hand up to hold the injury. He is careful to keep his elbows in, as usual, protect his core.

 

“I’ve been waiting to do that,” the man mutters. Neal just stares at him, wary. What more could he do – the man had a gun. “You’ve got nothing else to say?”

 

“What do you want?”

 

“Mostly to make you hurt, but I figure you’re a top prize. There must be someone who’d pay a lot to get their hands on Neal Caffrey.”

 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

 

“Oh, you don’t?” Keller mocks. “I’m sure it’ll come to you.”

 

“I wish it would.”

 

Keller gives him a look, wonders what that means, but decides it’s not important enough to him at the moment. What’s important is making Caffrey hurt some more, so he tunes him up for a few more minutes. By the end, Neal is in a fetal position on the ground, trying to avoid the worst of the kicks to his body. Finally, Keller delivers a vicious kick to the side of his head and he passes out.

\-----

Peter stalks the bullpen like a man possessed, throwing orders and processing data points from the team while on the move, desperate to find Neal as soon as possible. The tracking anklet has been found in a trashcan in Columbus Park, so they are focusing their search on lower Manhattan. An APB has been issued for Keller with a note to consider him armed and dangerous. If Peter would let himself, he would be sick with worry. For right now, his adrenaline keeps him going.

\-----

When Neal awakes, he is in the same abandoned warehouse the kidnapper had brought him, only he is sitting handcuffed to a radiator against a wall. He looks around and there is no trace of his abductor, but he suspects he must be nearby. He thinks he can hear him talking on a phone (is he outside?), but he can’t be sure. He glances down, sees that the tracker Diana had given him has been removed. So much for Peter being able to find him.

 

He casts around for something, anything he might use to defend himself if the man should return. He spots an old and rusted spring in the debris on the floor and pulls it over to himself with his foot. Acting completely on instinct, he uncoils the wire and sets to picking the lock. He doesn’t stop to wonder how he knows how to do this, he just does.

 

Suddenly something within him seems to unlock along with the handcuffs. A flash of memory assails him that is so vivid it is almost tactile. He sees Kate, hair shining in the Miami sun; Mozzie expounding on his latest conspiracy theory; Peter at his trial; Peter finding him in Kate's apartment; the music box; Alex; making love to Elizabeth and Peter for the first time. All of these memories come flooding back so fast his brain almost can’t process, and it becomes too much. He swoons, leans back against the edge of the radiator, but doesn’t lose consciousness. He stands, looks around the room and sees it all with new eyes; the eyes of one Neal Caffrey, con man extraordinaire and international man of mystery.

 

He straightens out his clothes and spots a side door that he hopes will lead to an exit on the opposite side of the building. He moves toward it, feels a twinge in his side. That prick Keller must’ve cracked some of his ribs; he’ll see to him later if he gets a chance. He moves swiftly and silently to the door that will lead him to freedom.

\-----

Peter is about to make the call to Elizabeth he has been dreading when his cell rings. He checks the readout: an unfamiliar number. “Peter Burke,” he answers curtly.

 

“Peter, it’s me.”

 

Peter immediately picks up on the change in Neal's voice – its timbre pitched in a lower range, his manner more confident – and his stomach flips. Neal is back. “Where are you?”

 

“The Bowery near Canal. Some shithole. Come get me.”

 

Peter is already gesturing for Jones, heads for the elevator grinning like an idiot. “With pleasure.”

 

“And Peter?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Bring Band-Aids.”

 

\-------------------

 

Neal sits in a dark corner of a dive bar in the Bowery, waiting for Peter. He hugs his injured ribs with his left arm as he and nurses a vodka that the bartender, a large Polish woman named Agnieszka, has insisted he accept from her. Peter arrives within minutes, eyes wild, and scanning the place. “Peter,” Neal calls to him, lifting his glass.

 

Peter's face is immediately transformed with relief. He walks to Neal's table and just looks at him for a beat. At last he smiles. “You look like hell.”

 

Neal drains his vodka glass. “I feel worse.”

 

Peter slips into the booth next to Neal, but doesn’t look at him. He is content just for their shoulders to touch. Neal understands that the overt displays of affection will be conducted when they are alone and that for now, Peter must remain the agent in charge of this operation. But he sags into Peter nonetheless, finally allowing the stress of the last few hours to begin to drain away.

 

Jones enters the bar, phone to his ear. “Diana’s team has caught up to Keller. They’ve got him subdued in the alley behind the warehouse.”

 

“Tell her to give him a kick in the jewels from me,” Neal suggests.

 

“Didja hear that?” Jones asks Diana. He nods, looks back at Neal. “Done deal. You OK, Neal?” he says, eyeing Neal's rapidly swelling cheekbone and general state of dishevelment.

 

“Been better,” Neal says, thinks for a second and adds, “But I’ve been worse.”

 

“We should get you to the medic. They’re outside,” Peter suggests, and rises. He offers Neal a hand and he groans as he gets out of the booth.

 

Jones leaves. Peter walks just behind Neal, glances around the bar; they are alone except for the bartender. Peter raises his hand and places it on the back of Neal's neck. Neal stops, turns to look at him. Peter curls his arm in and brings Neal in close, hand still on his neck. Neal closes his eyes and leans into Peter's embrace. Peter raises his other hand and places it on the side of Neal's face and just holds him for a few seconds. “It’s good to have you back,” he says finally, his voice breaking on the last word.

 

Neal steps back as Peter relaxes their embrace, smiling, eyes shining. “It’s good to be back.”

 

“I mean, it’s good to have you back.”

 

Neal smiles wryly. “Oh. Yes, well, some of us are born dashing sophisticates, and some of us have it thrust upon us. Thanks for all your help and patience the last few days. It couldn’t have been easy.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

They turn to leave, but Neal stops Peter with a hand on his arm. “One more thing. And maybe it’s some clinging vestige of the amnesia, but how exactly did El’s strap on wind up in my bedside table?”

 

\----------------

Thank you for your time


End file.
